


Your Skin Stained Crimson

by rthecynic



Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos Angst, Athos and his man pain, M/M, Soulmate AU, flower soulmate au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: A huff of laughter escapes from Athos’ lips. Despite the pain and the confusion and the dimming of the sky above him, the world somehow seems brighter. He is filled with warmth and light and something akin to happiness. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a life worth living.He wonders if this is what it feels like to realise that you’ve fallen in love.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154075
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	Your Skin Stained Crimson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedWillows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedWillows/gifts).



Since childhood, Athos has been forced to think of the relative worth of a life. Growing up the son of a lord, surrounded by those whose lives his father deemed less important than his own, he was always painfully aware of how one life was never equal to another. It shames him to think of it now, but he cannot claim that he was always disturbed by it. It had always seemed as natural as breathing, a simple fact of life, that some lives were raised above others by grace of God.

After Anne, however, since the moment he swore to relinquish his title and forsake his name, he has begun to understand. It is not the grace of God that raises some lives above others; it is greed and corruption and hatred, the luck of being born to one father over another. It is built upon the backs of those less fortunate, it is haughty and cruel and simply _unfair_. He has met many lords and courtiers and men with names to protect them in these past five years of service to the king, and more of them are abhorrent than not.

Even he himself cannot claim to be a good person – not after everything that he has done.

And he has seen such kindness amongst those who have only ever experienced the world as cold and dark and cruel. He has seen such love and light and goodness amongst the people who have had to fight for every scrap, amongst those who have known nothing but death and sickness and despair. He has seen hope amongst the hopeless, brotherhood amongst thieves and vagabonds, whilst those with the means to change the world are only selfish and oblivious to the world outside their own front door.

So, he has decided, it is not position that determines the worth of a life – it is the heart that beats inside you. It is empathy and compassion and love.

And by his own measure, Athos is severely lacking.

~*~*~*~*~

The world has always been mocking him, he thinks, as he stares at the piece of paper in his hand. It is yellowed and fragile, in danger of crumbling to dust at the slightest hint of roughness in its handling, but he has carried it close to his heart for almost eight years now, ever since the day it appeared under his door.

Sometimes he honestly can’t say why he didn’t tear it into pieces alongside the remnants of his shattered heart on the day he left his life behind, but there seems to be still a glimmer of hope, a seed planted deep inside his heart, that wants to believe that maybe - just _maybe_ – there is still a chance for his redemption.

These past months, he has looked at it often. He has read it so many times that he knows the words are imprinted upon his heart.

 _You must decide what a life is worth to you_.

He reads it again and he laughs. The world is definitely mocking him. What is worth anything to him anymore? His own life is nothing; it has been nothing for a long time. Lives are worth too much, and yet not enough.

He sees the worth in Aramis’ charisma – eager eyes always daring, always searching, always believing. His casual touches and prettied words. The love in his heart and the goodness in his soul.

He sees the worth in Porthos’ kindness – warm eyes and gentle caresses, strong arms that are a safe haven for any friend in need. He is all smiles and sunshine and a heart so good and pure that Athos wants nothing more than to save it from the corruption of the world. He doesn’t think he could bear the sight of Porthos losing even an ounce of that humanity.

He sees the worth in D’Artagnan’s passion – the sense of honour and justice that seeps out of every pore. He sees those eyes, so sharp and quick to anger, yet filled with warmth and depth and light. He is a storm and he is a shelter, he is a raging fire and a soft candle flame. He is a paradox that Athos will never tire of trying to figure out, a puzzle that he is determined to solve.

He looks at the lives that are marked on his skin, that are so intrinsically linked with his, and he sees all that they are worth.

He looks at his own and he only sees darkness.

~*~*~*~*~

He truly understands what a life is worth when he sees a Spaniard with his pistol aimed at D’Artagnan’s back.

There is no time to shout a warning, no time for D’Artagnan to turn, to dodge the incoming shot that might end his life.

And all Athos can see is his smile and his anger and his passion and those soft brown eyes losing their sparkle and he moves.

_You must decide what a life is worth to you._

_What is **his** life worth to you?_

And it is everything.

He shields D’Artagnan’s body with his own, the shot passing clean through his shoulder. He barely feels it at first. All he feels are the strong arms that catch him and lower him to the ground, all he hears is the desperate cry of his name, the enraged scream that tears from D’Artagnan’s throat just before the distant clanging of blades.

He stares up at the sky and time stands still.

The pain is distant, almost numb, but he can feel the crimson blood that pools from his body with every beat of his accursed heart. It soaks into the ground beneath him, returning him to the earth from whence he came. It wouldn’t be too bad, he thinks, to just stay here and watch the sky until the sun sets and the darkness falls. It wouldn’t be too bad to stay in this numb haze, warm and fuzzy and oh so tired. It wouldn’t be so bad to stay here and fall into warm brown eyes that remind him of home…

But it is all ripped away when the pain hits, burning through his veins like an inferno, as something is pressed to his wound.

“-os…! Athos! Can you hear me?!”

He furrows his brow. The eyes come into a clearer focus, but D’Artagnan sounds so far away.

“Athos!”

He has to say something, he realises. He has to say something to make the desperation in the voice go away.

“-tagnan…” he manages, and the relief is palpable in the air.

“Thank God!” D’Artagnan breathes. “For a moment, I thought…” There is a beat, and then; “You’re a fool, Athos! A bloody fool!”

A huff of laughter escapes from Athos’ lips. Despite the pain and the confusion and the dimming of the sky above him, the world somehow seems brighter. He is filled with warmth and light and something akin to happiness. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a life worth living.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to realise that you’ve fallen in love.

D’Artagnan’s fingers are nimble as they unlace the front of his shirt with the greatest of care, his touches ghost Athos’ skin as he pushes the material back to get a better look at the wound.

Athos hears a sharp intake of breath and tries to lift his head.

There, upon his chest, as scarlet blood pours from his body in a waterfall, another bloom of scarlet is unfurling upon his chest.

And Athos smiles.

~*~*~*~*~

Everything passes in a blur.

He sees shapes and colours, but makes no sense of them. He feels fingers and hands and arms, but he isn’t sure that they even exist. He feels the ground beneath him morph into something softer, but he has no idea where he is.

His thoughts are consumed by the rose upon his chest.

He’s seen its twin before, of course, sitting proudly surrounded by gladioli in the garden of D’Artagnan’s heart. He’d thought to ask about it once, but he could never find the words. To have heard D’Artagnan so plainly deny him would have obliterated whatever was left of his broken heart.

How could he have been so wrong?

He’d long ago stopped believing in the concept of soulmates. True, he’d found twin souls in Porthos and Aramis, but he’d never again believed in his rose. He’d never again believed in needing someone like you needed air to breathe, in feeling like another person could fill the void that had always existed deep in his very core.

And when D’Artagnan had begun to become the breath in his lungs and the sun and the stars, Athos had known that he could never be worthy of that kind of love in return.

Yet here he is, wearing D’Artagnan’s rose, and D’Artagnan is wearing his, binding them together through a love that was fated to be.

And if D’Artagnan – warm, fierce, _perfect_ D’Artagnan – can fall in love with him, then maybe he is more worthy of affection than he ever thought.

~*~*~*~*~

When he wakes and everything makes sense again, he finds that the surroundings are familiar. The soft bed beneath him is his own, the three people gathered around it are the ones worth most to him in the world.

Aramis’ shoulders sag as the tension and the worry and the fear seep out of them and he reaches to press Athos’ hand.

“You gave us quite a scare,” he says, and his voice is way too quiet. Athos notices the way that his hand trembles, the way that Porthos reaches to place a hand on his shoulder in quiet comfort. “I wasn’t entirely sure that you were going to come back to us…”

It occurs to him that Aramis looks pale, eyes red and bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept for days. Porthos is tense, ready to jump to action at any moment, a soldier’s instinct guiding him through the anguish. D’Artagnan looks like he’s been crying, and Athos suddenly remembers how young he is. For now, he doesn’t look like the brave Musketeer, the hardened soldier he’s become. He almost looks like a frightened child, desperately clinging to dimming hope and whispered prayers and the crumbling pieces of his heart.

Athos reaches out to the younger man, and he comes to kneel by the bed.

“There is no more need to fret, D’Artagnan,” he murmurs. “All will be well.”

D’Artagnan swallows the lump in his throat and nods, pressing his forehead to their clasped hands, fingers intertwined like vines.

“Shall we give you a moment…?” Porthos asks softly, and Athos is grateful for his perception of the intimacy of this moment.

“Thank you…” he whispers, and Porthos stands, stopping only to press his lips to Athos’ brow for the fleetest of moments before turning to guide Aramis from the room.

And then it is just him and D’Artagnan, him and his _soulmate_ , and everything that he has ever wanted to say in this moment dries up in his throat.

“For a moment, I thought…” D’Artagnan whispers, and the very birds outside seem to have stopped singing, the room is so quiet. “For a moment I thought that I’d lost you before we had the chance to truly find each other…”

Athos feels his heart shatter just a little at how broken D’Artagnan sounds. Yes, Athos is the one sporting the wound, but it seems that D’Artagnan is suffering just as much as he. They both have to knit their hearts back together, but at least they won’t be alone in doing so.

And there isn’t much he can say to make it better, not much he can do to prevent the nightmares that he suspects may plague D’Artagnan’s mind for weeks or months to come, not much he can do to assuage the guilt that he suspects he may be feeling inside.

But he can take his hand and guide it to his chest, allow D’Artagnan to feel the steady beating of his heart and the thrumming of his pulse. He can allow D’Artagnan to oh-so-carefully trace the petals of his rose, to see the mark of their love vibrant and proud upon his breast. And he can hold him through the night, pressing kisses into his hair and whispering reassurances against his skin, and they can slowly begin to heal together.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I really wanted Athos to get his rose today, so here we are!  
> I know this is a little bittersweet though, so I may do a soft bonus chapter either tonight or tomorrow if anyone wants! :)
> 
> The rose is symbolic as a romantic soulmate mark, and the red colour symbolises the passion and true love between Athos and D'Artagnan.  
> The letter mentioned is something that everyone receives upon their 18th birthday, vaguely warning of a danger that you will have to protect your soulmate from.  
> The gladioli mentioned are symbolic of a platonic soulmate.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! It honestly means the world to me! I think I have another three stories that I plan to write in this universe, and it makes me so happy that there are people enjoying it as much as I am!
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr if anyone wants to come and say hi, or to talk about the Musketeers! Comments and feedback make my day, and ideas and prompts are always welcome! If anyone has anything specific they want to see in this universe, please let me know! <3


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